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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24782443">Songs Without Words</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lindewen/pseuds/Lindewen'>Lindewen</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst with a Happy Ending, Asexuality Spectrum, Aziraphale and Crowley Through The Ages (Good Omens), Classical Music, Cuddling &amp; Snuggling, Established Relationship, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gabriel Faure - Freeform, He/Him Pronouns For Aziraphale (Good Omens), He/Him Pronouns For Crowley (Good Omens), Holding Hands, Kissing, Love Confessions, Multi, Mutual Pining, No Sex, No Smut, Paul Verlaine - Freeform, Pining, Post-Scene: Church in London 1941 (Good Omens), Post-Scene: Paris 1793 (Good Omens), Pre-Relationship, Scene: The Bus Ride (Good Omens), She/Her Pronouns for Crowley (Good Omens), Slow Burn, Soft Crowley (Good Omens), Songfic, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), The Night At Crowley's Flat (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 11:40:39</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,208</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24782443</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lindewen/pseuds/Lindewen</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>On a date night to a concert in London post-Armageddon't, an unexpected piece of music sends Crowley down memory lane. He'd pined for Aziraphale for a very, very long time--and, he reflects, they're so very fortunate to be together even now...</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>19</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Prologue (London, near future)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hi, it's another classical music songfic! I started writing this back in October and have been editing it almost continuously ever since. But at some point you just have to call a thing "done," y'know?</p><p>Links to performances and translations are provided in relevant chapters.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It was spring again. They’d driven through a heavy rainfall on their way up to London from Sussex, but the storm had moved off east and now the clouds were clearing, sunset streaking the sky orange and yellow in the light chill of the evening.<br/>
</p>
<p>Crowley slid the Bentley into a free parking space that was improbably close to the Royal Academy of Music's front entrance, then got out and walked around the car to open the passenger door for Aziraphale. By the time he’d done so, however, the angel had already bounced out of the car and onto the pavement, eyes lit up with excitement.<br/>
</p>
<p>“Ready, dearest?”<br/>
</p>
<p>The demon’s normally impassive expression split into a fond grin as he regarded his partner’s enthusiasm and took his offered arm. “Yep! Let’s go find our seats. You’ve got the tickets?”<br/>
</p>
<p>“Of course.”<br/>
</p>
<p>This evening’s date had been Aziraphale’s pick, but Crowley was just as pleased with the choice. The angel had miracled them up a pair of tickets to a Royal Academy of Music postgraduate student gala recital. Crowley figured it was probably meant as some sort of fundraiser, but Aziraphale could be relied upon to make a generous donation, and in the meantime, it was sure to be full of excellent and well-performed music written by composers who were old friends of theirs. And if one of the performers was Warlock’s piano teacher—which increased their chances of getting to catch up with Warlock himself—well, what of it?<br/>
</p>
<p>They made their way through the lobby and into the hall, handed from usher to usher with brisk efficiency until they found themselves seated in the third row. Crowley sprawled in the blue upholstered chair, one arm thrown over the back of Aziraphale’s seat and the opposite leg spread-eagled halfway into the space rightfully belonging to the next person to his left, earning him an irritated glance from the woman occupying that seat. Crowley grinned at her, then turned his attention back to the angel next to him. Aziraphale was flipping through his program excitedly, and instead of doing the same, the demon leaned his chin on the angel’s shoulder to read his program, too.<br/>
</p>
<p>“Oh look, they’ve shifted the order around since the last time you showed it to me online. Dear Andrew’s going second on the program now. What’s he playing? Ah. The first movement from Brahms’ Sonata in C Major. An interesting choice. Do you know if Warlock is here tonight to hear him?”<br/>
</p>
<p>Crowley closed his eyes and concentrated for a moment, his face lighting up when he found the presence he was looking for. “Yup. Front row of the balcony. Parents are presently...huh. Squabbling over who’s to give Andrew the flowers at the end. Hang on just a tick—” he pressed his fingers into his temples— “There. Tempted Warlock to nick ’em and do it himself. Ought to come from him anyway. He was coming along quite well on the piano when we left.” The demon smiled again, and the angel beamed back at him so brightly that Crowley knew his knees would have gone wobbly if he hadn’t already been sitting down. Then Aziraphale returned his attention to the program, brisk and businesslike, while Crowley shook his head slightly to try to clear it and scrambled to catch up.<br/>
</p>
<p>“What else is there? Hmm. A C.P.E. Bach piano sonata, always lovely; Mozart—oh dear me, not the “Ah, vous-dirai-je, Maman” variations, so overdone; Aaron Copland’s Emily Dickenson song settings; Paganini—he was one of yours, dearest, wasn’t he?— that blasted soprano we heard in December, back again with a Verdi madwoman scene, such a pity; various pieces I don't know yet but I look forward to learning; goodness, I didn't know Libby Larsen was writing for the violin these days; Bernstein’s “Simple Song,” nice to have something a bit different…oh, what’s this? Faure’s ‘Cinq Melodies de Venice,’ just at the end. Baritone. It seems he’s singing the entire song cycle.”<br/>
</p>
<p>The demon nodded. “Can’t really go wrong doing the whole thing on that one. Somebody, but I missed a lot of good music when I was asleep for sixty years.”<br/>
</p>
<p>Aziraphale chuckled and patted his hand. “Do you know the story behind the poems that make up the cycle? I followed it in all the literary journals at the time—the French literary establishment was simply buzzing.”<br/>
</p>
<p>“Yeah, I do, actually; I made a point later on to catch up. Knowing who I’d be running into around Hell later on and so forth.” Crowley closed his eyes and thought for a moment. “Let’s see. Paul Verlaine. Poet. Late 19th century Paris, right? Erm…wasn’t he the bloke who publicly cheated on his wife with a variety of men and women, publicly cheated on most of <i>them</i> with plenty of others, then published heaps of sexually suggestive love poems for the lot?”<br/>
</p>
<p>“Oh, well done, dearest, you really did do your homework, didn’t you?” Aziraphale patted the demon’s hand again and smiled fondly at him.<br/>
</p>
<p>Crowley shrugged, ducking his head to hide how red his face was becoming. “Professional responsibility, angel.” He risked a glance over at him. “At the time I certainly couldn’t have been…y’know, trying to impress you with my literary knowledge. Or anything like that.”<br/>
</p>
<p>Aziraphale chuckled. “No, I suppose not, but if you’d tried you certainly would have succeeded! Downstairs did end up with most of the artists in the 19th century, didn’t they?” He tilted his head thoughtfully. “The medieval era, now that was a different story altogether. Hildegard von Bingen directs five separate human choirs a week in Heaven, all singing original music of hers. It used to be one of the few musical bright spots in the place, but now that they’re not allowed many concerts since <i>The Sound of Music</i> came out—” He shuddered.<br/>
</p>
<p>The demon threw back his head and laughed.<br/>
</p>
<p>The concert, when it began, was lovely. Andrew performed the piano sonata splendidly, in Crowley’s opinion, and aside from the awful soprano, he enjoyed the Bernstein, the Bach, and all the others just as much as he’d hoped he would. He didn’t feel that any of the performances were particularly standout—although the Paganini was, of course, the same gleeful trip down memory lane that it always was; when that composer had sold his soul to Hell, Crowley had been in charge of handling the contract and had done so with great pleasure. But it was pleasant to simply sit in the darkened hall, fingers entwined with Aziraphale’s on the armrest, and listen to old favorite after old favorite. <i>Besides,</i> the demon reflected, <i>it’s pretty fun to watch my angel’s face; he just loves every single one of ‘em. Sa—Go—Somebody, but I love him.</i><br/>
</p>
<p>He wasn’t expecting the Faure to do what it did to him. When the young baritone in a spotless black tuxedo walked out onstage, bowed, and stood in the crook of the piano waiting for his accompanist to begin, the demon was merely feeling ever-so-slightly cramped in his legs, having enjoyed the evening but ready for it to be over. But from the very first cheery, up-tempo notes of the first movement, Crowley’s wholly-unnecessary breath was taken away. For a few moments, he had no idea why. <i>These are nice songs, but I’ve heard ‘em plenty of times before. And the poems are about casual sex. Affairs. Sleeping around. Fucking just for fun. Nothing to do with us; we never did that sort of thing even when we were apart for centuries at a time. Never interested in sex solely for its own sake, either of us. Yet here these songs are, turning me to utter goo. Why am I suddenly so very glad I didn’t read them when they were first published in the 1870s?</i><br/>
</p>
<p>
Then he figured it out, and the truth hit him like a ton of bricks. He closed his eyes behind the sunglasses, squeezed his angel’s hand, focused in on the French text, and let Verlaine’s words sweep him back into his memories.
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>"Cinq Melodies de Venise" is a song cycle for piano and mezzo soprano or baritone. It was composed by Gabriel Faure in 1891--mostly not in Venice, funnily enough!--using five selections from Paul Verlaine's volumes of French poetry written in 1869 and 1872. The title of the latter book was "Romances Sans Paroles," or "Songs Without Words," from which I got the title of this story. In today's terms we would probably say that Verlaine was openly bisexual, and several of the poems Faure chose are deliciously angsty examples of queer pining, often quite smutty (for the time, anyway) in nature. I'm more or less demisexual myself, but I'm also panromantic-ish, and either way I love me a good queer pining art song! :)</p><p> </p><p>As always, feedback/constructive criticism/any other comments are welcome and encouraged!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. 1. Mandoline (Yorkshire, 1516)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>“Aziraphale. ‘S Twelfth Night. Social class ‘n gender ‘n everything is all mixed up, let alone…let alone people wearing mostly white and people wearing mostly black. Nobody here knows who we really are. Nobody’s going to care if we’re seen together. Actually, more’n half of ‘em are so drunk they won’t even know we’re being seen together, ‘cos they won’t be seeing—oh, never mind.”</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Translation of Verlaine's entire poem, "Mandoline": <a href="https://www.poetryintranslation.com/PITBR/French/Verlaine.php#anchor_Toc263756512">HERE</a> (Please note, this is a poetic rather than a literal translation!)</p><p>Performance of this setting in Faure's song cycle: <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KpFxBgvVFg0">HERE</a> (I know the character who's singing it is a baritone, but you get Leontyne Price anyway because she's UNBEATABLE. :D)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>Their jackets of silk cut short,<br/>
The long trains of their robes,<br/>
Their elegance, joyous retorts,<br/>
And their soft bluish shadows,<br/>
Whirl in the ecstasy<br/>
Of a moon that’s pink and grey,<br/>
While among the gusts of breeze<br/>
The mandolin tinkles away.</p>
</blockquote><p>-Paul Verlaine</p><p>***</p><p>“Hey, watch where you’re going!”<br/>
</p><p>Crowley, resplendent—if she did say so herself—in a sumptuous black gown studded with rubies and rich with embroidery, shoved right back at the drunk man who had just crashed into her out of the press of people. But the demon was more than a little tipsy herself; the man had already stumbled away and she found herself shoving an entirely different man altogether.<br/>
</p><p>“I say, please do be careful—Crowley!”<br/>
</p><p>“Wot? Angel? ‘S that you?”<br/>
</p><p>She didn’t sober up all the way—it was Twelfth Night, after all; no point in that—but she sent just a little bit of the alcohol out of her bloodstream. Her head cleared a little, and sure enough, there was Aziraphale: dressed at the height of 1460s fashion for all that it was the 1510s, straightening his cream-colored doublet as a smile lit up his entire face. Crowley’s heart accelerated at the sight of it. Swiftly, however, the smile was replaced by a frown, and the angel jerked his head to one side to indicate <i>come meet me over there.</i> Crowley rolled her eyes behind the smoked quartz circles covering them, but trotted after him into the shadows behind a nearby statue.<br/>
</p><p>“Aziraphale. ‘S Twelfth Night. Social class ‘n gender ‘n everything is all mixed up, let alone…let alone people wearing mostly white and people wearing mostly black. Nobody here knows who we really are. Nobody’s going to care if we’re seen together. Actually, more’n half of ‘em are so drunk they won’t even know we’re being seen together, ‘cos they won’t be seeing—oh, never mind.”<br/>
</p><p>“Our Head Offices don’t recognize Twelfth Night, Crowley! <i>They will care!</i> What are you <i>doing</i> here?”<br/>
</p><p>“Duke nearby in this county whose wife is bored out of her skull; ‘Devil finds work for idle hands’ an’ yadda yadda. I’ve been tempting her to a spot of sneaking into her husband’s study and embezzling. She’s really good at it, too!”<br/>
</p><p>“Oh, is that so?”<br/>
</p><p>“Yup. Not sure yet what she’ll use the money for, although I’m leaning toward tempting her eldest daughter to steal it, dress up as a boy, and run away to university next Michaelmas term. Kid’s pretty spunky, and she reads nearly as much as you do. Prob’ly wouldn’t require that much work to get her to do it, if I’m honest.” She smiled hugely, showing pointed teeth, but there was no malice in it. “For tonight, though, I’m just here to watch the party an’ enjoy the alcohol. You?”<br/>
</p><p>The angel visibly relaxed. “Oh, thank Heaven! That won’t interfere with my blessing whatsoever. I need to bless the forthcoming marriage of the daughter of this lord from Selby and her young man from…well, from somewhere further afield, in any case; I quite forget exactly where. They’re both here tonight, dancing over there, in fact. It’s terribly important, or it will be in a few generations when their descendants—well, never mind.”<br/>
</p><p>Crowley shrugged. “Glad you let me know, but you know I’d back off if you asked me to, right? The Arrangement?” She fixed Aziraphale with a stare from behind her dark glasses.<br/>
</p><p>“Yes, yes, of course. But I didn’t realize, in all this—” Aziraphale gestured at the teeming chaos of the party behind him— “<i>this,</i> that you were even going to be here.”<br/>
</p><p>“Fair enough.” The demon looked around. They were in one corner of the banqueting hall of some nobleman’s manor in the north of England; after the amount she’d had to drink tonight she’d quite honestly lost track of precisely where. The room teemed with human bodies: children, men, women, and more than a few who were taking full advantage of the festive season to upend all gender norms as thoroughly as possible. There were people in finery, people in masks or fancy dress, people laughing or conversing or slurping wine. Music rang out among the conversation and laughter: drunken voices singing along with an actually rather decent madrigal choir, recorders, a serpentine, and one of those new lutes from Italy…mandola, that was it. The smell of fine food mixed with the smell of sweat rolling off the dancers and revelers. At one door a group of amateur players hurried in and out, carrying last-minute props to set up for the promised mystery play in a nearby room. Couples kissed passionately in shadowed corners; who knew how many of them would dare to do so in the broad light of day at any other time of year. Crowley swallowed.<br/>
</p><p>
  <i>Well, it is Twelfth Night, after all…worth at least asking him to spend time with me…</i><br/>
</p><p>“Hey, angel. Never mind all that. It’s a party. Wanna dance?”<br/>
</p><p>“I beg your pardon, Crowley! I <i>don’t</i> dance.”<br/>
</p><p>“Fine, then. Wanna get some food and some more wine and then come watch the mystery play with me?”<br/>
</p><p>“Hmm. Well, that sounds much more enjoyable. I suppose it <i>is</i> Twelfth Night, after all. Upstairs probably…has much more important things to pay attention to than us, don’t you agree?” Aziraphale gave her a nervous little smile, but he offered his arm.<br/>
</p><p>The demon suppressed a stab of longing as she took it. “Yup. Might as well enjoy it while it’s here!”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. 2. En Sourdine (Paris, 1793)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The demon closed his eyes despite the half-darkness and took a deep breath. Next door, he knew by the small, domestic noises—the pull of the curtain, the splash of water into the washbowl, the scrape of the wardrobe’s door, the clunk of a book being set down—Aziraphale was getting ready for bed; or, more likely, getting ready to read all night. A wave of fondness washed over him, and Crowley found himself smiling.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>TIME FOR ANGST!!!!! (I promise a happy ending to this story. But it is not this day!)</p><p>Translation of Verlaine's entire poem, "En Sourdine": <a href="https://www.poetryintranslation.com/PITBR/French/Verlaine.php#anchor_Toc263756516">HERE</a> (As before, this translation is poetic rather than literal.)<br/>Performance of this setting in Faure's song cycle: <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KsLxXAup4cA">HERE</a> (Benita Valente this time!)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>With eyelids scarce apart,<br/>
Arms crossed in dream,<br/>
From your slumbering heart<br/>
Chase forever every scheme.<br/>
Let’s be convinced at last<br/>
By the sweet lulling breeze<br/>
That makes the russet grass<br/>
Wave, in ripples, at your feet.<br/>
And when solemn evening<br/>
Falls from black oaks there,<br/>
The nightingale will sing<br/>
The voice of our despair.<br/>
</p>
</blockquote>-Paul Verlaine<p>The crepes were indeed delicious. Crowley did not usually go in for human food, but even he had to admit that these particular crepes were perfect. Light, fluffy, fried to a gorgeous golden brown; the mushrooms flavorful and tender in the savory ones and the cooked apples soft and spicy in the sweet. He managed almost a quarter of his portion of each before sliding them across the table to Aziraphale with a smile. The angel beamed back at him and tucked in.<br/>
</p><p>Watching Aziraphale eat, the demon soon found himself mesmerized. Within the sanctuary of his dark glasses, he allowed his eyes to follow his lunch companion’s fork to his mouth loaded with a mound of spiced apples and pastry. The angel’s eyes closed in rapture, and a smile of pure contentment stole across his face. Crowley had long practice in keeping his face impassive, but his heartbeat accelerated. <i>Satan, he’s beautiful.</i><br/>
</p><p>He’d gone looking for Aziraphale the previous day around lunchtime, hoping to ask him to take on one of two simultaneous temptations on opposite sides of the country that he’d mistakenly been double booked for. First he’d tried Aziraphale’s forthcoming bookshop location in Soho, but hadn’t been surprised to find that deserted—after all, the angel had <i>just</i> purchased it. A little while later he’d arrived at Aziraphale’s flat a few miles away, only to find him absent from there as well. And when Crowley asked the owner of the candle shop downstairs where he was and received the cheery reply that he’d gone to Paris for a vacation—well. The demon had miracled himself directly to Paris and set off in search of him. And now, his angel safe once more, Crowley wanted nothing more than to sit here forever and stare at him, listening to his own heart pounding away.<br/>
</p><p>They’d started eating late, and by the time Aziraphale rose and set some francs in the exact center of the table, it would have been well past teatime in England. The two exited the café onto a side street already wreathed in shadow, and when they emerged onto the main road, the golden light of the autumn afternoon was giving way to evening. They walked along in silence, side by side, for several minutes.<br/>
</p><p>At last, Aziraphale spoke. “Where are you staying, my dear?”<br/>
</p><p>Crowley jerked out of his reverie, startled. “Hmm? Oh, where am I staying? Dunno, really; just headed straight to find you as soon as I got here. Bit of a rush. Where are you staying?”<br/>
</p><p>The angel glanced at him. “Oh! I’m at a delightful little inn on the outskirts of town—I’m sure I could find you a room there if you’d like. I know you’d prefer to get back to London, but we’ll almost certainly have missed the last ferry back to England for the day by the time we make it all the way to Calais.”<br/>
</p><p>“I could, you know—” Crowley mimed a snap—“miracle us back? My treat?”<br/>
</p><p>Aziraphale sighed, worrying at his signet ring. “No, I’m afraid that won’t do. I told Heaven where I was going to be, you see. I couldn’t avoid the conversation; Gabriel was just being so—well, that’s neither here nor there. What I’m trying to say is that they’ll know perfectly well if I miraculously show up back in London, and questions will be asked. So I’ve got to go by stagecoach and ferry like anybody else.” He shot an anxious glance at Crowley. “Hence the inn. You’re welcome to return to London on your own, of course, but if you’d rather—"<br/>
</p><p>The demon swallowed hard and shook his head. “No, no, I’ve decided I’m gonna keep an eye on you until you’re back safe in London. Lead on, angel.”<br/>
</p><p>***<br/>
</p><p>“Delightful” was not the word that Crowley would have used to describe the inn. “Cramped,” perhaps. Or “in a neighborhood of dubious safety given the current political climate,” since it was located next to what had obviously been a convent until recently. But it was clean; and the window of his tiny room looked out on a postage stamp-sized square of the ex-convent’s garden, containing a stunted pine tree plus what must be the very last bloom of roses for the season; and he was willing to take the angel’s word for it that the food was good.<br/>
</p><p>He didn’t bother to light the candle on the miniscule writing desk, but dragged the room’s solitary wooden chair over to the window and sat backwards on it, straddling the backrest and resting his head on his arms over the top rung. The sky was painted yellow and pink with sunset, cut across with charcoal strips of cloud. A breeze ruffled the branches of the tree outside his window, bringing the smell of the roses drifting up to him.<br/>
</p><p>The demon closed his eyes despite the half-darkness and took a deep breath. Next door, he knew by the small, domestic noises—the pull of the curtain, the splash of water into the washbowl, the scrape of the wardrobe’s door, the clunk of a book being set down—Aziraphale was getting ready for bed; or, more likely, getting ready to read all night. A wave of fondness washed over him, and Crowley found himself smiling. <i>I never could understand why he doesn’t like to sleep, but I suppose he feels the same way about me an’ eating. Fair’s fair, I guess.</i> And in any case, the image of the angel sitting in the candlelight turning page after page, swept away into some fictitious world of human creation for hours and hours, simply made him grin. <i>That’s my angel, all right.</i><br/>
</p><p>Soon, turning that scene over and over in his mind, he was filled with longing. What would it be like to be in that room with Aziraphale? Perhaps he’d be slouched on the matching chair next door, watching openly as the angel removed shoes and jacket and waistcoat and settled down to read in <i>fuck, way fewer layers than I’ve seen him in since Rome or so? </i> Or even sprawled on the narrow bed himself, preparing to nap while Aziraphale settled into the chair to read? He thought of half-closing his eyes as the angel kissed him good night and made his way back across the room, burrowing into the blankets and relaxing to the quiet sound of the breeze and pages turning, drifting off to slumber as the shadows fell outside their little circle of candlelight. What would that be like—knowing his sleep would be watched over by a protective pair of eyes belonging to the being he most loved? He swallowed hard at the thought, feeling heat rise to his face.<br/>
</p><p>
  <i>Oh Satan, yes, that’s what I want. And it’s just what I will never, ever have.</i><br/>
</p><p>Some time later, the demon rose in the gathering darkness to stump over to his own bed and throw himself down onto it, wiping his eyes as he did so. Somewhere in the dark of the garden, a nightingale sang, and Crowley’s heart echoed its despair.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>As always, I welcome any and all comments!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. 3. Green (London, 1941)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>“Crowley, you’re absolutely burned to a <i>crisp!</i> I truly can’t believe you did that for me just because—hmm, oh look at you, you poor thing!”<br/>The demon let the sound of the angel’s voice wash over him as the sole of his right foot was lathed with the blissful, if all too brief, numbness of burn ointment. Crowley’s entire body relaxed and he slid bonelessly back into the sofa, a sigh of relief—and quite possibly more than a little tenderness that he couldn’t control—escaping his lips.<br/>“Ngk—Oh, angel, I lo—!”<br/></p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>MORE ANGST--but this time with a little bit of hope around the edges, and also this is the last super-angsty chapter!</p><p>Poetic translation of Verlaine's entire poem, "Green": <a href="https://www.poetryintranslation.com/PITBR/French/Verlaine.php#anchor_Toc263756538">HERE</a></p><p>Performance of this setting in Faure's song cycle: <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ve_m6TTdgmE">HERE</a> (Gerard Souzay!)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>Here are the fruits, the flowers, the leaves, the wands,<br/>
Here my heart that beats only for your sighs.<br/>
Shatter them not with your snow-white hands,<br/>
Let my poor gifts be pleasing to your eyes.<br/>
I come to you, still covered with dew, you see,<br/>
Dew that the dawn wind froze here on my face.<br/>
Let my weariness lie down at your feet,<br/>
And dream of the dear moments that shed grace.</p>
</blockquote>-Paul Verlaine<p>	His feet <i>hurt.</i><br/>
</p><p>It hadn’t taken one single moment of thought to make the decision to go into the church. Crowley had been following this particular group of Nazi spies for weeks, just observing them. Certainly if he had anything to do with it the Nazis wouldn’t actually <i>win</i>; Crowley never ceased to be surprised at just what nauseating depths humans could sink to without the least need for any intervention from Downstairs. But Downstairs was going to give him credit for their actions whether or not he was responsible for them, so if they stayed under his observation he could at least pretend to know what they were talking about.<br/>
</p><p>He’d known there’d be a double crossing happening tonight. He’d listened in on the planning session, and all right, if his mind had wandered at certain points then that was on him. But out of all the possible Allied spies who could have shown up with the books, when it turned out to be Aziraphale—<br/>
</p><p>Crowley had counted to twenty, then counted to twenty again. And then, when he felt the surge of angelic panic from inside the church, the demon suddenly found himself throwing caution to the winds, pelting into the church at top speed, barely slowing as his feet hit consecrated ground and the pain shot through him.<br/>
</p><p>It was worth it, of course: they both survived without inconvenient discorporation—even the <i>books</i> survived, thanks to him—and the Nazis were all dead and on their way to Hell, their bodies lying amidst the ruins of the church.<br/>
</p><p>But now his feet <i>hurt.</i><br/>
</p><p>He managed to shove his pain aside long enough to drive them back to the bookshop, but when he stopped the car the agony crashed over him. Aziraphale took one look at him, and the next thing Crowley knew, Aziraphale was standing at the drivers’ side door putting an arm around his shoulder to haul him upright and support him as he hobbled into the bookshop.<br/>
</p><p>The demon sank onto the sofa in the back room, unable to conceal a whimper. Aziraphale tutted and clucked, bustling out of the room and reappearing with a bottle of ointment and a soft cloth.<br/>
</p><p>“Oh my dear, I didn’t realize—let me see; I think I can help you, but to be honest I’m not entirely sure.” He knelt on the floor and eased off the demon’s shoes. As he peeled off his socks Crowley bit his lower lip ferociously, trying to stop himself crying out in pain, but the angel must have noticed the tension in his body because he pulled on the socks more gently, hissing in sympathy.<br/>
</p><p>“Crowley, you’re absolutely burned to a <i>crisp!</i> I truly can’t believe you did that for me just because—hmm, oh look at you, you poor thing!”<br/>
</p><p>The demon let the sound of the angel’s voice wash over him as the sole of his right foot was lathed with the blissful, if all too brief, numbness of burn ointment. Crowley’s entire body relaxed and he slid bonelessly back into the sofa, a sigh of relief—and quite possibly more than a little tenderness that he couldn’t control—escaping his lips.<br/>
</p><p>“Ngk—Oh, angel, I lo—!”<br/>
</p><p>Aziraphale had frozen at the sigh and looked up at him. Crowley had clapped his hand over his mouth and bit down hard before the word could slip out. And for a long moment, Crowley almost thought that one of them had stopped time. The scent of his cologne drifted up to Crowley, and as he gazed into those blue eyes filled with…<i>tenderness?</i>, he could feel his heart pounding in his chest. Could he—possibly—have noticed, after all this time? Could he—possibly—feel the same way? No, it wasn’t possible. But then why was he lowering his hand; why were they leaning together, faces drawn in close like magnets, Aziraphale’s lips parting and ready for a—<br/>
</p><p>Somewhere outside, a car backfired, and the angel jerked back as if coming out of a daze. Cheeks crimson, he returned his attention to Crowley’s feet, daubing energetically at the burns.<br/>
</p><p>“Dear oh dear, Crowley. Now: you’ll be staying here tonight; I won’t brook <i>any</i> argument; there’s no way you can drive in this state. I’m afraid I usually don’t sleep, so I don’t exactly own a bed, but you’re more than welcome to this sofa. I’ll sit up reading in the armchair in the other room and you can call if you need me.”<br/>
</p><p>Crowley could only stare at him openmouthed and nod. <i>Satan, I’ve never wanted anything else.</i><br/>
</p><p>“There. That should be a bit better, but it won’t be fully healed until the morning. Now, what do you think?”<br/>
</p><p>The demon flexed one toe. It still hurt, quite a lot, but the pain had gone down enough that he thought he could bear it. He lay there, head spinning, as Aziraphale bustled around miracling up pillows and blankets and—<i>oh Heaven,</i> actually <i>tucking him in</i> on the couch, <i>fussing</i> over him. And then—<br/>
</p><p>“Ngk!”<br/>
</p><p>Aziraphale had kissed him on the forehead. It was soft, it was gentle, it was so tender that the demon’s heart entirely melted in his chest.<br/>
But then his eyes focused properly: Aziraphale looked flustered and exasperated. Before he could say anything, the angel was retreating, calling “Good night!” and closing the door to the back room with a gentle <i>thud.</i><br/>
</p><p>The demon lay in the darkness, emotions whirling in all directions and chest heaving. The spot on his forehead where Aziraphale had kissed felt as though it were on fire.<br/>
</p><p>He attempted to sleep, but for hours he merely lay there listening to the creaking of the old bookshop around him as the night wore on.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Comments are welcome and encouraged! :)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. 4. À Clymène (On a bus to London, present day)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Crowley awoke feeling more comfortable and safer than he had in decades, head pillowed on something soft over to his right. Someone—<i>ah, yes, Aziraphale</i>—was shaking him gently awake and then leading him by the hand down the steps from the bus. He was vaguely aware of a low snap that indicated the driver had been paid—and probably blessed besides—and then that warm hand was pulling him into the too-bright lobby of what appeared to be his building, across and into the lift, and up.<br/>“You’re going to have to unlock the door for us, dearest.”<br/>“’S unlocked for you, angel. ‘S always unlocked for you.”</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Mostly fluff this time!</p><p>Poetic translation of Verlaine's entire poem "À Clymene": <a href="https://www.poetryintranslation.com/PITBR/French/Verlaine.php#anchor_Toc263756513%22">HERE</a><br/>Performance of this setting in Faure's song cycle: <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yAk--W_H7Jk">HERE</a> (I don't know much about Bruno Laplante, but he certainly has a lovely voice!)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>Mystical singing-birds,<br/>
Romances without words,<br/>
Dear, because your eyes<br/>
The shade of skies…<br/>
…Because the rare perfume<br/>
Of your swanlike paleness…<br/>
…Has by soft cadences<br/>
With its correspondences,<br/>
Lured my subtle heart, Oh<br/>
Let it be so!<br/>
</p>
</blockquote>-Paul Verlaine<p>Headlamps from the cars on the other side of the motorway, on their way out of London, flashed into Crowley’s eyes, but he paid them no heed as he stared out the window from the gray semi-darkness inside the bus to the orange semi-darkness outside of it. After a day like this one had been, his ability to think clearly was long gone. He wanted a nap more than he’d wanted one in many years.<br/>
</p><p>There was only one sensation that cut through the numbness: the warmth of the angel’s hand pressed into his on the bus seat’s armrest. Aziraphale had taken his hand the moment they’d sat down, and for reasons that entirely escaped Crowley, he hadn’t let go yet. The angel’s palm was warm, and his thick, strong fingers fit perfectly between Crowley’s. The demon, for his part, was fairly certain that his unnecessary heartbeat had accelerated to Bentley-esque speeds the moment Aziraphale had taken his hand, and it showed no sign of slowing anytime soon.<br/>
</p><p>He risked a furtive glance at the angel next to him out of the side of his sunglasses. Aziraphale sat silent and pensive, breath coming easily, arms relaxed. After a few minutes, the demon gave up pretending and turned his head to look at him directly. There he was: slumped a bit with exhaustion, but not one thread of his jacket or his beloved waistcoat even the least bit rumpled or in disarray. His eyes were half-closed against headlamps of the oncoming traffic and Crowley couldn’t for a minute figure out what he was thinking, aside from being worn out himself—but here he was, still on this Earth. Somehow, miraculously, still here. <i>And somehow, miraculously, holding my hand of his own volition.</i> Giddiness washed over the demon, and before he could suppress it, a foolish smile hitched itself onto his face.<br/>
</p><p>Aziraphale must have felt his gaze, because he looked over at him, possibly catching a moment of that smile before Crowley was able to regain control of his facial expression and wrest it into a scowl.<br/>
</p><p>“Bloody lorries and their high beams. Why don’t they turn them down on a public motorway?”<br/>
</p><p>The angel hummed noncommittally. They were the only beings left on the bus besides the driver. “You can sleep if you’d like, Crowley. I’ll wake you.”<br/>
</p><p>“Ngk.”<br/>
</p><p>Crowley leaned back in the seat and closed his eyes His mind drifted to the hour before, when they’d been sitting at the bus stop in Tadfield.<br/>
</p><p>
  <i>“You can stay at my place. If you like.”<br/>
</i>
</p><p>
  <i></i>
</p><p>
  <i></i>
</p><p><i>Aziraphale had looked at him with gratitude and something like…hope?...before remembering himself and deflating.</i><br/>
</p><p><i>“I don’t think my side would like that.”</i><br/>
</p><p><i>“You don’t have a side anymore. Neither of us do. We’re on our own side. Like Agnes said, we’re gonna have to choose our faces wisely.”</i><br/>
</p><p><i>Crowley had been partially turned away then, flagging down the bus. But he’d seen the angel out of the corner of one eye. Was it just him, or did something change in Aziraphale’s expression when Crowley had said those words? Some minute release of tension in the shoulders; the face settling into what might, under other circumstances, have been a smile? As though he…perhaps had new optimism for the future; as though things might…change for the better? Well. A demon could hope, couldn’t he?</i><br/>
</p><p><i>And immediately afterwards, Aziraphale had slid into the seat next to him, not behind him; and had taken his hand as if it were the most natural thing in the world.<br/>
</i>
</p><p>Crowley’s heart beat even faster in spite of the sleep still threatening to wash over him.<br/>
</p><p>“Angel?”<br/>
</p><p>“Yes, dearest?”<br/>
</p><p><i>Dearest.</i> He didn’t have very many emotions left in him after such a day, but comfort, and with it a bone-deep relaxation, settled over him.<br/>
</p><p>“Never mind, angel.”<br/>
</p><p>But perhaps Aziraphale had understood what he hadn’t said, because he squeezed the demon’s hand gently, then smoothed his thumb across the back of it. He paused, hesitant, then did it again with more deliberation. Crowley’s brain fizzed with pleasure, and he closed his eyes again and fell into a doze with a small smile on his face.<br/>
</p><p>***<br/>
</p><p>He awoke feeling more comfortable and safer than he had in decades, head pillowed on something soft over to his right. Someone—<i>ah, yes, Aziraphale</i>—was shaking him gently awake and then leading him by the hand down the steps from the bus. He was vaguely aware of a low snap that indicated the driver had been paid—and probably blessed besides—and then that warm hand was pulling him into the too-bright lobby of what appeared to be his building, across and into the lift, and up.<br/>
</p><p>“You’re going to have to unlock the door for us, dearest.”<br/>
</p><p>“’S unlocked for you, angel. ‘S always unlocked for you.” Crowley yawned hugely, jaw cracking, shaking his head to try to clear it. Sa—Go—Somebody, but he was so very sleepy.<br/>
</p><p>Aziraphale must have steered him inside his flat, because the next thing he knew there was a quiet snap and he was being pushed gently down onto a sofa-shaped thing that he was positive he hadn’t owned that morning. The hand slipped out of his, and he tried to grasp it back. But his mind was still in a fog, and with one last squeeze Aziraphale’s fingers ghosted over his own and away. Footsteps, a crash, a distant “Oh, <i>bother!</i>,” more footsteps, and then the smell of coffee was unfurling through the flat before a scalding hot mug was pushed into his hands.<br/>
</p><p>At last, Crowley’s head began to clear. He focused on the angel sitting next to him—next to him!—on the white leather sofa with a mug of his own, from which the scent of Earl Grey was rising. The demon grinned.<br/>
</p><p>“Thanks for getting us home, angel. Dunno what happened there. Mmm, good coffee. Boiling hot, just the way I like it.”<br/>
</p><p>The angel beamed. “Oh, all tickety-boo, dearest. As you said, the door was unlocked for me.” He took a sip from his mug, then straightened his waistcoat with his other hand. When his eyes met Crowley’s, they were soft and fond. “You were simply exhausted.”<br/>
</p><p>Happiness flared in the demon, and he smiled. “Yup. Expect I was. Still am, as a matter of fact; only running on the coffee now.” He gestured with the mug and gulped some down. “Wot was the crash?”<br/>
</p><p>Aziraphale’s hands twisted together. “The crash? Oh, dear. That was simply, ah…” he looked at Crowley sideways. “The fact of the matter is, it was dark in the kitchen and I broke your coffee pot. A swift miracle made it good as new, of course. But there it was.”<br/>
</p><p>Crowley smirked at him. “You did, did you? Well then. I suppose that’s all right. Easily fixed.”<br/>
</p><p>He leaned back on the sofa, limbs spreading out to take up most of the space, and folded his sunglasses onto the collar of his shirt so he could rub a hand over his eyes. “I guess we’re on the same page about what ‘choose your faces wisely’ means, right, angel?”<br/>
</p><p>“Of course.” The angel nodded briskly. “We’ll have to swap bodies in order to get through both punishments unscathed: holy water for you, and hellfire for me. I’ll go to Hell masquerading as you and the holy water won’t affect me; you’ll be taken to Heaven in my stead and be able to weather the hellfire.”<br/>
</p><p>“Yup. Only possible explanation, really. And there’s no other punishment they’ll give us. It’s got to fit the crime. I’m sure you saw back there, the mess that used to be Ligur?” He gestured over his shoulder with the half-empty coffee mug.<br/>
</p><p>“I saw something. I wasn’t sure what it was. I was too focused on getting you settled.”<br/>
</p><p>“Well, it was Ligur. He an’ Hastur broke in here trying to kill me. So I cashed in my, ah, insurance policy. Don’t worry, though—you’ll notice the tongs and the rubber gloves out on the desk with your thermos flask. I didn’t take any unnecessary chances.”<br/>
</p><p>Aziraphale’s face had drained of all color. Jaw hanging open, blue eyes never leaving the demon’s, he groped around behind him with one hand until his tea mug was set down safe on an end table that Crowley was positive hadn’t been there that afternoon. The angel whimpered softly.<br/>
</p><p>“Angel? You OK?” Crowley leaned forward, concerned, but before he could do anything, Aziraphale’s hands were framing his face and he had captured the demon’s lips with his own.<br/>
</p><p>Time may have, once again, stopped. Probably it hadn’t, Crowley reflected dimly, but it might as well have for all the good it did. No thoughts were capable of filtering through his brain anymore, his breathing had stopped, and his body wasn’t responding to any of his commands. He was only conscious of the angel’s warm, soft mouth on his own; the shock of pleasure that accompanied it and the flood of warmth across his face.<br/>
</p><p>Unfortunately, his face wasn’t the only place where warmth was spreading. Hot pain blossomed on his knee along with a steady wetness, and in spite of himself Crowley wrenched himself up and away from Aziraphale and off the sofa.<br/>
</p><p>
  <i>“Shit!”</i><br/>
</p><p>In an instant, the angel was all apologies, hands wringing together once more. “Oh! I’m so sorry, that was totally inappropriate of me, darl—Crowley, that is!”<br/>
</p><p>“Angel—"<br/>
</p><p>“Please do accept my apology, I promise it won’t happen again! Oh dear, I don’t even know what came over me; I couldn’t stop—but I <i>should’ve</i> stopped anyway!”<br/>
</p><p>“Angel—"<br/>
</p><p>“It’s not fair to you that—”<br/>
</p><p>“AZIRAPHALE!”<br/>
</p><p>“Yes, darl—yes, Crowley?”<br/>
</p><p>“Angel, I spilled my coffee an’ it slightly boiled a couple square inches of my leg. That’s all. That’s <i>all.</i>” He smiled, snapped the empty mug and spilled coffee into the ether, and sat back down, taking both of Aziraphale’s hands in his as he did so. “I’ve wanted to do that for several centuries at the very least, 'f I’m honest.”<br/>
</p><p>“You wanted to spill your coffee?”<br/>
</p><p>Crowley shook his head. <i>Here goes.</i> Trembling, knowing his smile was blossoming ever wider across his face, he fished one hand out of their intertwined fingers and cupped the angel’s cheek. Aziraphale leaned into his palm and closed his eyes. “No. To kiss you. I’ve—” he paused, gathered his courage, and then continued in a rush. “I’ve been in love with you for a long time, see?”<br/>
</p><p>The angel’s eyes snapped open, and Crowley’s heart skipped several unnecessary beats to see the sheer, blazing joy in their pale blue depths. <i>And…love? For me?</i> “Oh, my dearest love, you have no idea—”<br/>
</p><p>This time it was the demon who poured himself forward, but Aziraphale met him with enthusiasm, and soon the angel’s soft lips were covering his own once more. Crowley whimpered into the kiss, mouth sliding awkwardly along Aziraphale’s lips, hand reaching up to tangle in the angel’s soft white curls (<i>oh Sa— oh Go— oh Somebody, they’re just as soft as they look</i>) as a whine escaped the back of his throat. And when he felt something brush exquisitely against his upper lip and a second later it clicked that <i>that’s the angel’s tongue,</i> the whine turned into a moan, and he pulled away, staring.<br/>
</p><p>Aziraphale chuckled. Crowley’s brain stuck itself on <i>just how beautiful those blue eyes are when they’re framed by a blush like that.</i> “Mmm. Lovely. A little too fast, darling? We can slow down if you’d like.”<br/>
</p><p>The demon shook his head forcefully and touched his lips with one hand. That same foolish smile was spreading across his face again, he could tell. “No. Not too fast at all. Fuck, no, that was <i>excellent.</i> Just surprised, that’s all.” He laughed, feeling lighter than he had in a long time. The future could go hang; he held his angel in his arms and <i>he loved him back.</i> “Not sure why I was, to be perfectly honest—the number of crème brulees I’ve fantasized my way through watching you eat just like that! Guess it’s just been a long day.” He fought back a yawn.<br/>
</p><p>“Well. I’m sure we can do something about that.” The angel grinned back at him again, and there was that blazing joy again, that love, all for Crowley, and his smile grew even larger, almost literally glowing. “Every detail of the switch has to be perfect or they’ll suspect something. You’re going to have to talk me through everything and everyone I’ll need to know about Hell, and I’ll do the same for you regarding Heaven. At some point I’m also going to clean up—you said his name was Ligur?—for you; I absolutely forbid you to touch it. And then we’ll have to practice the switch itself; walking and so forth. But you can take a nap first in your bed, if you’d like. Or if you’d prefer, we can—“ he blushed again and looked at Crowley through his lashes—“cuddle here while we talk?”<br/>
</p><p>That didn’t even require making a decision. He clicked his fingers and the repaired coffee pot, plus a new black mug, appeared from the kitchen. “Naw, coffee’ll keep me awake for a little while yet. Talk first an’ cuddle, and then I’ll have a kip while you handle Ligur?”<br/>
</p><p>Aziraphale’s smile could have lit the dawn all by itself. He bent down to untie his shoes and stow them neatly beneath the coffee table (<i>Since when do I own a coffee table?</i>), then pushed himself all the way back into the corner of the couch and opened his arms. Crowley couldn’t move fast enough to settle back against him, his head pillowed on the angel’s plush stomach. It was extremely comfortable. The angel folded one arm around his shoulders and buried the other one in his hair. Crowley sighed blissfully, wriggling into Aziraphale’s embrace and pushing up against his hand in his hair.<br/>
</p><p>“Mmmm, angel—”<br/>
</p><p>He laughed. “Oh, my darling demon, how I love you. Oh, how lovely your hair is; I’ve always longed to touch it.”<br/>
</p><p>“Ngk.”<br/>
</p><p>They sat in silence for several minutes, eyes closed. Then, at last, Aziraphale spoke.<br/>
</p><p>“Now, if we’re going to survive this then you must understand who you’re going to run into when you’re in Heaven. It’s quite a bit different up there than it was the last time you were there, though. Gabriel you already know, and Michael. But Sandalphon; he’s relatively new…”<br/>
</p><p>Crowley listened, eyes closed but nodding. It felt exquisite to simply sit here in his angel’s arms with his gorgeous, soft fingers buried in his hair—but if listening carefully was what was going to allow them to continue exploring these fascinating sensations in the future, then listen he would, and remember every single word.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Comments of any sort would be appreciated! :)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. 5. C’este L’extase (London, near future)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The stars—<i>his</i> stars—stretched out above them, covered and uncovered in turn by wind-blown scraps of cloud. Crowley removed his sunglasses and tilted his head up to gaze at them.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Poetic translation of Verlaine's entire poem, "C'este L'extase": <a href="https://www.poetryintranslation.com/PITBR/French/Verlaine.php#anchor_Toc263756526">HERE</a><br/>Performance of this setting in Faure's song cycle: <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0donEoLQVVA">HERE</a> (An up-and-coming artist this time: Gabrielle Stuart-Davis. I don't know her, but clearly she's fantastic!)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>"It’s languorous ecstasy,<br/>
It’s amorous syncope,<br/>
It’s all the wood’s trembling<br/>
In the breeze’s embrace<br/>
It’s, in branches grey,<br/>
All the small voices singing.<br/>
Oh the fresh and frail murmur!<br/>
It sighs and it whispers,<br/>
Resembling the gentle cry<br/>
That the grass breathes when stirred…"</p>
</blockquote><p>-Paul Verlaine</p><p>	Crowley opened the Bentley’s passenger door for Aziraphale, then walked around the car to get in the driver’s side. They’d met Andrew at the stage door for congratulations—not that the real intention was to run into Warlock delivering his flowers in order to say hello to him, no, not <i>even slightly;</i> how dare one even suggest such a thing. The crowd on the pavement and crosswalks in front of the Royal Academy was thinning out as people went their separate ways, and Crowley needed far fewer miracles than he’d expected in order to get out from the queue of cars around the hall. The car’s radio tried to start up with more Queen, but he silenced it with a wave. The final movement of the Faure was still stuck in his head, and he wanted to keep it that way for a little bit longer.<br/>
</p><p>It took them much less time to get out of London than it would have for the average car and driver, and soon they were speeding along the motorway, windows half-down to catch the soft spring night’s breeze, on their way home to Sussex.<br/>
</p><p>The angel sighed with contentment. “Such a lovely concert, my dear. Thank you so much for indulging me.”<br/>
</p><p>Crowley smiled and rested his hand on Aziraphale’s knee. “Not at all, angel. Pleasure was all mine.”<br/>
</p><p>“Of course that soprano was still over the top, but Andrew did quite well, and that baritone at the end was excellent.”<br/>
</p><p>“He was bloody <i>brilliant,</i> was what he was.”<br/>
</p><p>They drove on in contented silence, making the hour-and-forty-five-minute drive in a mere 50 minutes. The roads were nearly empty, and aside from a bit of a white-knuckled grip on the edge of his seat, Crowley noted with satisfaction that Aziraphale didn’t so much as complain.<br/>
</p><p>About fifteen minutes from home, the demon spoke again. “You know, maybe they don’t have to be just about casual sex. The poems. The people he wrote about—he was in love with some of ‘em, right? Verlaine was? And they couldn't be together, not properly in the open, 'cos—well, gender's a stupid concept anyway. So the poems, they could still make sense in…other contexts.”<br/>
</p><p>The angel nodded slowly. “I think he was. At least, he was with some of them. But dearest, that’s one of the best things about poetry. It allows for multiple interpretations.” He patted Crowley’s hand where it still rested on his knee, then ran his thumb lightly back and forth over his knuckles. “Physical dalliances could be written off as mere scandal whether he secretly loved them or not—but being in love, wanting to be <i>with</i> them…that was harder at that time. And you’re right, the poems do reflect that.”<br/>
</p><p>Crowley flipped his hand over in Aziraphale’s and laced their fingers together.<br/>
</p><p>When the Bentley rolled to a halt in front of the tiny cottage on the furthest outskirts of their small town, Crowley switched off the ignition and the two celestial beings got out of the car. Aziraphale, who had been looking pensive for the last few miles, bustled into the house muttering about wanting to look something up in a book, but Crowley lingered outdoors in the quiet darkness.<br/>
</p><p>The stars—<i>his</i> stars—stretched out above them, covered and uncovered in turn by wind-blown scraps of cloud. Crowley removed his sunglasses and tilted his head up to gaze at them. Aziraphale had initially circled the listing for this cottage within the border of the South Downs National Park as much for the relative lack of light pollution as anything else, and it was at moments like these that the demon was glad of it. There was nothing he’d done to deserve this peaceful life: Hell off his back at least for a while, his fill of plants to harass and stars to admire, and the angel he loved by his side at last. By rights he should be miserable and hunted, perhaps surveying—or perhaps casualty to—the carnage of the last war at this very minute. But no, here he was; <i>here they both were,</i> thank Somebody, and he was actually happy for the first time in his post-Fall memory. Gratitude swallowed him whole until he felt as though he were floating amongst the stars themselves; dizzy and falling upward into comforting, warm darkness.<br/>
</p><p>“There you are darling. Are you coming inside?”<br/>
</p><p>Crowley turned around, smiling, to see Aziraphale coming out of the cottage carrying a small book. The angel beamed back at him and, once he’d approached, stood close.<br/>
</p><p>“Just admiring the stars, my angel. Been a long winter; the warmth is nice.”<br/>
</p><p>They stood in silence for a moment, eyes turned upward. Then the angel spoke.<br/>
</p><p>“Look at what I found. <i>Romances Sans Paroles.</i> That last movement from the song cycle tonight, the one you particularly liked, ‘C’este l’extase’—it’s from this book. I bought this copy from Verlaine himself. He was drinking heavily by that point and needed the money—he tried to under-sell it, in fact—but I simply fell in love with the poetry and insisted on paying full price.”<br/>
</p><p>The demon raised an eyebrow at him. “What were you doing in Paris in the 1870s?”<br/>
</p><p>“Buying books, of course. You were asleep.” Aziraphale chuckled. “I don’t believe I’d made the connection at the time, but looking back after all these years I rather marvel at the sheer <i>quantity</i> of books of unrequited or grieving love poetry that I purchased on that trip.”<br/>
</p><p>Crowley’s gaze softened. “Not unrequited, my angel. Never unrequited.” He leaned close to plant a gentle kiss on his partner’s temple, then slid his arms around Aziraphale’s waist from behind and rested his head on his shoulder.<br/>
</p><p>For a long moment, the two of them simply gazed in silence up at the stars. When the angel finally spoke, his voice was soft, almost as if he didn’t realize he was speaking aloud, quoting the end of the poem from memory:<br/>
</p><p>“It is ours, is it not?<br/>
Mine, say, and yours,<br/>
Whose humble song we breathe<br/>
Through the evening, all so quietly?”<br/>
</p><p>Silence fell for a long moment. Then Crowley kissed the tip of Aziraphale’s ear and buried his nose in his soft curls. “Ecstasy indeed.”<br/>
</p><p>“Ecstasy after much pain. Yes. I love you, Crowley.”<br/>
</p><p>“I love you too, Aziraphale.”<br/>
</p><p>The angel twisted his neck up and around to give the demon one tender kiss on the lips, and then they walked arm in arm back inside their cottage where the warm glow of lamplight awaited them.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Anyway. Just a self-indulgent and soft little fic for my own amusement as a musician. Thanks for reading! Comments and/or kudos (if you feel so moved) are appreciated!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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